Goblin's Revenge
by Mr Sinister
Summary: Peter Parker discovers something important to him is possibly being held by the Green Goblin, and puts his marriage on the line to find it. This is taken from the Spider-Man series I co-write with a friend of mine.
1. Goblin's Revenge: Part One

**_Goblin's Revenge_**

**_Part One_**

The Molten Man had almost caught up with her a couple of times on her way over here. Fortunately, Allison Mongrain mused bitterly, she had been able to escape his clutches, since he had not been acting as though he were in control of his own actions, and therefore his movements were a little off, giving her the chance she needed to escape. Doubly fortunate, then, that she hadn't been alone - Joe "Robbie" Robertson had listened to her, and had vowed to protect her while she got her information to Peter Parker. Osborn was trying to kill her, of that she was certain. What she wasn't so certain of was why the Molten Man had become his chosen assassin; the last she'd heard, Mark Raxton had gone straight. Robbie had confirmed this for her, which only served to confuse her further. He'd caught up with them first on the docks, just after they'd disembarked from their boat from Cologne, and had been pursuing them ever since. Mongrain wasn't sure how Osborn had managed to find them so fast, but she was determined to figure it out as soon as she could. On the fly if necessary, but figure it out nonetheless.  
  
"How much further is it to Parker's house?" she demanded through lungs that burned through sheer exhaustion and fear.  
  
"Not long now," Robbie said, the strain finally beginning to overlay itself on his weathered features. "Five, maybe ten minutes at the most. We'll get that information to the Parkers, I promise."  
  
"I hope so, Mr. Robertson," Mongrain replied archly. "Osborn has tampered with people's lives for too long, regardless of whether he's been in a business suit or not. I intend to see that this one wrong, at least, is rectified. Peter Parker deserves that much from me."  
  
"We'd better get a move on, then, Miss Mongrain," Robbie said, grabbing her arm suddenly. "I think our time's running out."   
  
He pointed down the street towards a steadily-advancing golden figure, each step it took searing the road and leaving the stink of burning tarmac hanging in the air. Mongrain turned on her heel and ran, Robbie close behind her. She could hear the sizzling of the road getting closer and closer even as she ran, and she felt a shudder of relief run through her when Robbie shouted "There! Peter's house is there!", his hand flailing wildly in order to show her where to go. She was just about to hammer on the door when she heard the Molten Man storming towards her, his outstretched hands grasping for her throat. A low growl seeped through his clenched lips as he crouched like a panther ready to spring, his muscles taut and hard. Mongrain noticed that his eyes were not on her face but rather were directed to her neck, and the locket she wore there; a gift from Norman Osborn when she had first begun to work for him as an undercover operative. Suddenly it all made sense. She unclasped the locket and threw it at the Molten Man's face.   
With speed more suited to a cat, Raxton caught the locket and crushed it to powder in one searing paw. With that, the strange vacant look in his eyes vanished, he put a hand to his head, and he mumbled, "Where am I?"  
  
Robbie stepped forwards cautiously and said, _sotto voce_, "You're at the Parkers'. You were following us because of that locket you just destroyed. Do you have any idea how that might have happened?"  
  
"No," Raxton said, still sounding dazed. "I was working late at Multivex and I felt this sudden crackle of energy, or something; I'm not entirely sure. And then I woke up here. That's all I can tell you."  
  
"Multivex... that's a subsidiary of Osborn Industries, isn't it?" Robbie said, suddenly looking like he had the measure of what was going on here.  
  
"Yes, it is," Raxton said, placing a scorching hand on his golden chin. "Do you think Norman Osborn has something to do with this?"  
  
"He has everything to do with this, Mr. Raxton," Mongrain snapped, her voice frayed. "I know he wanted me dead because I had outlived my usefulness to him, and he obviously thought I would be an easy target for someone as strong and invulnerable as yourself. I suspect he'll be annoyed to discover he was wrong. I have a message for Peter Parker and I have to deliver it to him. Now if you'll excuse me..." She walked up to the Parkers' front door and raised her hand to knock.

* * *

Mary Jane was tired. She had hardly been able to keep her eyes open all day, and she didn't really have any solid idea why. She could feel a restless itch that she felt unable to scratch, and it bothered her. So she had called Jill Stacy to talk the possible reasons for it over.  
"Jill, what would you say if I told you that I had thought about returning to modeling?" she asked, after greeting her friend in a pleasant but exhausted way.   
  
There was a thoughtful pause on the other end of the line, until Jill finally said "I think that would be wonderful, MJ. But don't you think you're maybe making this decision too quickly?"  
  
   "That's just it, Jill, I'm not. I've been thinking about this for a while, ever since our baby... ever since we lost our baby. I had maternity-wear contracts then, and I fit right back into the whole scene, as if I'd never left. I think I'd have an opportunity to move on with any kind of contract, really. I certainly haven't been going anywhere with my psychology studies recently." She sighed.   
   "Anyway, aren't I getting a little old for college now? I mean, shouldn't I be thinking about settling down? Getting myself a good, well-paid job while I can? Peter, he's different, I know - he wants to play boy photographer for as long as he can, and it hurts his prospects with other jobs because he's always going off to take pictures of Spider-Man - but I want something that pays well, and can give us a comfortable living. I paid for most of our stuff for a while, back in the day, but... certain things... ended that."   
   She drew a sharp breath, not wanting to remember Jonathan Caesar or his mad designs on her, and how he'd managed to suck her life savings out from under her in his mad quest to own her as if she was a china doll, or, as was perhaps more likely, a particularly juicy savings bond.  
   "Mary Jane, you know I'm your friend," Jill replied, "and you know I'll support you in anything that you do. I saw some of your work a while back and it was very good - I ended up buying some of the clothes you modelled, as a matter of fact - but I'd think very carefully about this before you do it. You're a wonderful model, but you're also a pretty good actress, too. Why don't you try getting some television work?"  
   Mary Jane felt her mouth hang open in disbelief. "I don't believe it. Someone who watched 'Secret Hospital' and isn't a raving lunatic. Will wonders never cease?" She could see Jill's face contorting with confusion on the other end of the line and added quickly "Private joke between me and Peter. I'll explain it next time I see you, if you like."

"You better," Jill retorted. "You two and your private jokes. I think you do this just to confuse the outside world."  
  
   "Well, that and make ourselves amused," Mary Jane said. "Which doesn't usually take much, I must admit." She remembered the original question abruptly and continued "Anyway, to tell you the truth, television doesn't really interest me. I got egged on the street for what my character was doing on screen and I don't really want to go there again."  
  
   "Well, you don't have to be on a soap. You could always try out for a newsreader's position," Jill suggested. "I think you'd look good reading about some celebrity scandal. How about going for Entertainment Tonight?"  
  
"Me? Read the news? I think I'd freeze." Mary Jane abruptly had a private vision of how she might react in the eyes of millions of New Yorkers. The picture wasn't favourable. "Anyway, I'd feel like I was recycling the society pages of the Daily Bugle, and we all know how badly-researched they are. They'll say anything for a story."  
  
"I know," Jill said, a touch of laughter edging her voice. "I'm not sure I've ever read anything that was actually true in that section - do you remember the time they told us that Leonardo DiCaprio was going to be a champion for sea mammals everywhere?"  
  
"I read that," Mary Jane replied, feeling the side of her mouth tugging itself upwards. "I think they got the wrong Leonardo. Maybe if they'd meant the Ninja Turtle, I'd have been more convinced."   
She chuckled lightly and pushed a stray strand of her flame-coloured hair behind her ears. This was turning out to be a good decision, she decided. Jill was making her feel better already. Suddenly, she heard a commotion outside in the street and walked over to the front window, carrying the cordless handset with her.   
"Hold on a second, Jill," she said as she did so. "I think there's something going on outside. Look, I'll call you back, okay? Thanks for talking - you really made a difference. I'll let you know what I decide. Goodbye, Jill - my love to Paul and Arthur, okay?" She pressed the "end call" button on the handset and looked out the window, to see a golden figure, whom she recognized as the Molten Man, stomping towards two other people just a little way down the street. One she recognized as Joe Robertson, but the other she had no clue about. It was a middle-aged woman with graying hair and a sour complexion. She saw the Molten Man suddenly break off his attack when he was thrown something by the woman, and then saw him wander off as if in a daze, his gait a little unsteady. The woman was just about to knock on the front door when she opened it and stepped out into the chill evening air.   
   "Hello, Robbie," she said. "What brings you here? And why was the Molten Man following you?" She ignored the woman for the moment, going with the person she knew and trusted for answers for now. Walking over to him she kissed him lightly on the cheek, smelling the tang of old pipe tobacco about him and smiling at the familiarity of it.  
   Robbie gestured towards the woman with one worn, weather-beaten hand. "She brings me here, Mary Jane. She said she had some important news for Peter, and it involves Norman Osborn."

   Mary Jane felt her heart skip a beat in abject horror. Why couldn't he leave Peter alone? Why had he come screaming back from the grave, like so many other old foes, in search of bloody vengeance? It was difficult for her to understand how Peter was still sane in the face of Norman's mad vendetta - in the face of the man who had murdered his first real true love. Still, whatever news this woman had for Peter, she would hear it as well. She didn't want to be kept out of the loop where Osborn was concerned; that much she had learned through bitter experience. "Well, ma'am -"   
  
"Allison," the woman corrected her. "My name is Allison Mongrain."  
  
"Well, Miss Mongrain, "MJ said, feeling her teeth gritting slightly, "perhaps you'd better come in. Whatever news you had for Peter, you can tell me."  
  
"Why?" Mongrain demanded icily. "Why should I trust you?"  
  
"Because I'm Peter's wife. That's all the reason you should need," MJ replied, a flash of steely determination in her glare causing Mongrain to reconsider and step in side the small dwelling.  
  
"I'll wait outside," Robbie said as she did so. "Whatever Allison has for you concerns the two of you and nobody else. I won't intrude."  
  
"Don't be silly, Robbie, come inside - you'll freeze out here," Mary Jane said, ushering him in and offering him a seat in the kitchen. "I'll just be in the lounge with Allison. Call if you need anything, okay?"   
  
Robbie smiled and sat himself down in the kitchen, poring over the day's edition of the _Daily Bugle_ with gusto.  
  
Once she was satisfied Robbie was okay, MJ directed Mongrain to the lounge and said "Make yourself comfortable," in a markedly more clipped tone than she had used with Robbie.  
  
"I detect a slight hostility towards me," Mongrain said, stating the obvious. "Why is that?"  
  
"If you knew what Norman Osborn's done to my husband, you'd be hostile to you as well," Mary Jane snapped coldly. "Anyone who can work for that man is beyond my understanding. He's evil, and it's a wonder the world hasn't noticed it yet."  
  
Mongrain smiled thinly. "It took me a while to realize that fact, I admit that, Mrs. Parker. But I have, and I've made it my business to come here to tell you something very important - so important that Osborn was willing to kill me for it."  
  
"Well?" Mary Jane demanded impatiently. "What do you want to tell me?"  
  
"He has your child," Mongrain said bluntly. Mary Jane felt her eyes, and the tears came so freely after that, she wondered if she would drown in them.

* * *

"It is time." Norman Osborn's sonorous, commanding voice stated what the participants in the Gathering of Five ceremony had been waiting to hear.   
It was time to decide which of the five assembled - Norman himself, the unknown girl Martha (or "Mattie", as she insisted she be called) Franklin, Morris Maxwell, Doctor Greg Herd and Madame Web - would get the gifts of power, madness, death, immortality and knowledge. Each of the five possessed one piece of a circle of stone (with Norman possessing the central spindle around which the stones would be placed) that hummed with iridescent power, singing their crazed song louder and louder as the shards were brought closer together.   
The five gathered around a central stone plinth, clad in flowing red robes, and held their shards up high. Arcing energy crackled around them, touching skin and hair with no apparent ill-effects. Osborn felt his dreams of ultimate power drawing ever closer. The fools he had gathered to take part in the ceremony were pawns at best, sacrificial lambs at worst. He would see that they were all got rid of when he had attained his goal. Immortality or knowledge would mean nothing; they would all fall before him and his gift of power. The gifts of madness and death would be their own rewards, of course.  
The five stood around the plinth, ready with their shards, the energy coalescing around them as the shards were brought ever closer together.   
  
"Madame Web," Osborn said slowly, "place your shard on the plinth." He wanted Web out of the equation as soon as possible - to have her gain ultimate power was a possibility he did not want to see come to pass. He watched her stumble up to the plinth and raise her shard high, the energy around them making the tip of the stone a focal point, crackling ever stronger as she lowered it into position on the top of the plinth. As she did so she was blown backwards, seemingly by a bolt of lightning. Her old body flew backwards and Greg Herd had to dive to save her from breaking her spine as she landed. Osborn did not have time to see that, though - all he could see was a black mass of roiling, churning energy above the central plinth.  
  
"What's going on?" he demanded of Maxwell, whose face had gone as white as a sheet in a matter of seconds. "What's happening?"  
  
"The Gathering has failed," Maxwell said in a hushed, horrified tone. "The spell has gone wrong. Madame Web must have had doubt in her heart. The forces that govern the spell knew that, the instant she put her shard down, and they're angry. Two of us will pay the price for what we have brought about, the same as if the Gathering had gone smoothly, but the remaining three will be left with nothing!" His bald head was swathed in sweat, and his voice shook with fear.  
  
"Is there any way to stop it?" Osborn said hurriedly.   
  
Maxwell shook his head. "No," he breathed. "Two of us will die, and the spirits will find us even if we leave this place. We could survive for another day, at most, but two of us must die soon to please the spirits."  
  
"No," Osborn said quietly, in a voice that rose to a shriek as he screamed "No! I was so _close_!" He had to duck as another bolt of searing energy arced towards him and slammed into the wall behind his head, leaving a rough-hewn hole with flames licking at its edges. When he felt confident enough to look up again he saw that the girl, Mattie, had been caught in one of the beams.   
She screamed in agony as she was hoisted off her feet and hung suspended five feet in the air. The smell of burning flesh hit Osborn's nostrils and made him want to vomit, but, like a rabbit caught in headlights, he found himself unable to stop watching. Eventually, the girl was thrown back to earth, her limbs gone limp and her skin burnt away, to reveal scorched muscle and charred bone. Osborn knew that she was dead the moment she hit the ground, coming to rest in a crumpled, mangled heap. He had seen many dead bodies in his time, so he knew to recognize the signs.  
Suddenly, another horrible scream from behind him made him spin quickly on one heel. To his surprise, it looked like the spirits had chosen Maxwell to be their second victim. Like the girl, he hung in the air, twitching and thrashing as his flesh was seared away and his life force drained. Osborn was not sorry to see him die - he was simply glad it was not him.   
The notorious Osborn luck seemed to be holding again, even when it came to being chosen for death by supernatural entities. He felt his lips twitch into a triumphant smile as the room returned to its usual calm, the spirits appeased - at least for now. In the center of the room, the plinth stood scorched and blackened, the shards cracked and useless, their energy expended and their power drained. Osborn howled with rage, his fists clenching and unclenching of their own accord. There would be no second chances at this, it seemed. His great scheme had been thwarted by sheer bad luck. Someone would pay for this.  
  
That someone would be Spider-Man.  
  
Before he could do anything else, however, the mobile phone he had left on the desk in the corner of the room went off, its shrill call distracting him from his present train of thought. Snatching it up in a fury, he snapped "Yes?" in a cursory tone.  
  
"Mr. Osborn?" said a cautious voice on the other end of the line. "The Brotherhood of Scrier salutes you, my lord. We are your servants for life. Our blood is yours to spill –"  
  
"Enough!" Osborn snarled. "Give me some good news, boy, or I will spill that blood more quickly than you would care for."  
  
"I'm afraid that isn't possible as yet, my lord," the Scrier said nervously. "I have information from the surveillance network regarding Allison Mongrain."  
  
Osborn grit his teeth and wiped his brow of the sweat that had finally begun to accumulate there with a silken handkerchief. That damnable Mongrain woman was turning out to be more of a thorn in his side than he had originally anticipated. "Well, boy?"  
  
"Mongrain has... she has..."  
  
Osborn felt his temper slip, finally. "Damn you, tell me what she has done, or I will cut it out of your worthless hide myself!"  
  
"She has given the Parkers the information you sought to keep from them. The Molten Man gambit was a failure. Mongrain and the Bugle man, Joe Robertson, they found the tracking device and destroyed it. The Molten Man is no longer under our control, and we suspect he may be coming to exact his revenge." 

* * *

Greg Herd watched Osborn's mad raging and swallowed nervously. This was turning ugly in a hurry, he thought. He was lucky that whatever had happened had not happened to him. He was lucky to be alive - which was more than could be said for either the Franklin girl or the old man Maxwell. He supposed he should count himself lucky on that account, but what would become of Annie now? She was hanging onto a thread as it was, and if Osborn should choose to cut off the medical care that she was receiving out of spite or malice, what would he do  
then? What would she do?  
_Oh, Annie, I'm so sorry. I did this for you, and I failed you._  
In his arms, Madame Web stirred, coughing blood out onto her aged lips. Herd looked down and saw that the old woman's face was wracked with pain. He realized that she was probably bleeding internally, and she would need medical attention herself sooner rather than later. Which meant that he was her only hope.  
Stumbling to his feet with Web in his arms, he moved towards the door quickly and silently. With Osborn occupied on the phone, Herd was confident that he wouldn't notice the two of them leaving. He was certainly angry and self-absorbed enough right now. Not wanting to miss his chance, and unwilling to be around Osborn for at least the immediate future, Herd ran quickly towards the elevator to the ground floor, Madame Web moaning and shifting in his arms. He quieted her and pushed the button to call the elevator and leave Osborn to his madness.   
_And not a moment too soon_, he thought.

* * *

Peter Parker, also known as the Amazing Spider-Man, swung into cover a little way from his home in Forest Hills, in order that he might change from his garish red-and-blue costume into the civvies he carried in a web-sack on his back. With practiced ease he slipped from one life to the other, leaving the pressures of both behind for the moment. He was tired, as he imagined his wife was as well, after a long day. He did not think, however, that she had had to deal with a couple dozen muggers and ungrateful muggees. His jaw still ached from where a confused old lady had walloped him across the face with her handbag, which, he was convinced, had had a brick glued to the insides. It had been one of those days, he concluded, that made him wonder if he ought to hang up his tights and wave a white flag. Sometimes the general public could hit harder than Doctor Octopus. He rubbed his mouth with a hand and felt the swelling protest angrily. He tried not to keep probing it with his tongue as he walked towards his house, whistling a little tune as he did so. Knocking on the front door with a jaunty five raps and then another two, spaced a few seconds apart, he got ready to greet the light of his life. The face that greeted him looked like his wife's but it was glistening with new and dried tears, and looked raw from being wiped with a handkerchief so often.  
  
"Hey, babe, what's wrong?" Peter asked softly, holding out his arms for his wife and gently enfolding her to hold her close.  
  
"Oh, Peter, it's been so crazy today," Mary Jane sobbed. "Robbie came here with some woman called Allison Mongrain, and she -" She broke off, sobbing.  
  
"She what, MJ?" Peter asked, frowning. "What did she do?"  
  
"She told me our daughter was alive," Mary Jane said, wiping her red, swollen eyes with her hand. "She told me May was alive. Our baby, Peter!"  
  
Peter frowned again. "Why is this bad news? If our daughter is alive we should go to her. I don't see what could be so awful -"  
  
"She said she used to work for Norman Osborn," MJ said, her voice cracking. "She said that he has May. She said he was holding her at his hunting lodge in the woods."   
Peter's face twisted into a snarl. _Osborn_. It didn't surprise him. Norman loved to do these kinds of things. Other people's lives were just a sick game to him. Peter's life in particular.  
  
"MJ," he said slowly, kissing his wife on the forehead and holding her tight, "you know I have to find out if this is a lie or not, don't you?"   
  
MJ pulled away from him suddenly, gasping, a hand over her mouth. Her eyes glistened with fresh tears.  
  
"Oh, Peter, no," she said. "No. May is dead. I know that she's dead. I felt her die. I carried her inside of me for nine months and I felt her life end. Don't torture me any more. God, _please_, Peter, don't do this to me. Don't do this to _yourself_!"  
  
"I have to, MJ," Peter said firmly. "I lost Gwen to Osborn; I won't lose what we created together. We made a _life_ - we had a little _girl_, for God's sake - and I won't let Osborn take that away from me. _Not again_."   
  
MJ crossed her arms, lowering her head. "I see what this is all about," she said slowly. "This isn't about May at all. This is about Gwen and Osborn, isn't it? You're after revenge."   
  
Peter was mortified. "How _dare_ you say that? I loved Gwen, and I loved May - I mean I _love_ May - and I want Osborn to pay for what he's done to them both. Osborn _has_ to pay for this, don't you see?"  
  
"No, Peter, I don't see," MJ said sadly. "Can't you just leave this one _alone_? Don't give Osborn the satisfaction of getting to you - he _wants_ you to go to him. May is _dead_. I don't know how to say it any other way. I loved our daughter too, with all my heart and more, but I know that she's gone. Please, Peter, I want you here with me. I need you. You're my husband; please, Peter, just hold me. Just... hold me."  
  
Peter felt his heart breaking. "I will, MJ, after I've brought our daughter back to us. We'll be a family again, I promise. I love you, Mary Jane. More than I ever have. But I _have to go_." He kissed her softly and then turned towards the front door. "I'll call you when I have her, MJ - I promise you that, too. I love you."   
  
He heard the door slam emphatically behind him and he wondered if this was the right thing to do.  
_Tell me this is right, Uncle Ben. Tell me this is right. Wait a second... I don't need to know if this is right - of course it is! Osborn has my daughter; an innocent child. I won't let him poison her like he did Harry. I hope I make you proud, Uncle Ben. I just hope my marriage stands up to it. _

* * *

Mary Jane Watson Parker looked up to the night sky, and picked out the light somewhere on the constellation of Orion that she and Peter had deemed "their star". It flickered unblinkingly, as brightly as it had always done, but somehow - - somehow its light didn't seem as bright, or as warm, as it had done when Peter had been there to cradle her in his arms. _Oh, Peter... I hope you know what you're doing._

* * *

Norman Osborn screamed and threw his phone across the room, where it shattered against the wall, propelled there at speed by his enhanced strength.   
  
"Idiots!" he howled. "Fools!" _It is time to act_, he decided. _But it will not be the Scriers who fight for me this day. Today the Goblin strikes. For the last time._   
  
He strode across the room, sidestepping the corpses and making a beeline for a closet on the south wall. From it he drew a case and a duffel bag. Flipping the lid of the case he drew out a grinning gargoyle face and several pieces of machinery. Deftly, he assembled the pieces until the familiar shape of the Goblin Glider lay on the floor, its engine humming ready for the chase.   
From the duffel bag, he drew a purple and green horror that had been absent from the skies too often recently. It was time for the Green Goblin - the _real_ Green Goblin - to carve his bloody furrow across the city again, and it was time for Peter Parker to feel the full wrath of the Goblin once more.   
Osborn threw off the heavy red robe, and the shirt and trousers he had been wearing beneath it. Systematically, he drew on the Goblin like a second skin - first the tunic and hobnailed boots, then the gloves with their deadly sparkle blasters concealed in the fingertips, and finally the grinning Halloween mask that completed his transformation from Norman Osborn into Spider-Man's worst nightmare. Through the Goblin's red eyes, he saw the world as if it were doused in blood.  
  
Spider-Man's blood.  
  
Parker's blood.  
  
_He dies tonight_. _  
Tonight._


	2. Goblin's Revenge: Part Two

Norman Osborn sat, enthroned, upon an ornately-carved wooden chair with expensive leather upholstery, clad in his garish Goblin attire. His mask lay limply on the desk in front of him, its manic, insane grin staring blindly up at the ceiling. On the other side of the desk stood one of Osborn's legion of Scriers, clad in their ceremonial black robes. With one massive hand he leant, almost casually, on a small wooden object.  
A cradle. 

"I don't expect to have to repeat this order," Osborn said flatly, looking up at the monolithic Scrier, who was built, like all of his brethren, seemingly to simulate a brick wall. "This plan is very important to me - I must succeed where Parker fails. It is imperative that you do not let Parker foil your efforts. And dispose of Raxton if he attempts to step in, too. I'm finished with tolerating that fool and his self-righteous ways. Do you understand me? I will have your head - _your head_ - if your people fail me again." 

"Yes, my lord," the Scrier said obediently, bowing neatly as he did so. If he felt any fear from Osborn's quite genuine threats, it wasn't evident in the tone of his voice. Osborn admired that as much as he despised Peter Parker's tragically stunted vision and idealism. 

"Good. Make sure nothing goes wrong, boy, or I will hold you personally responsible. Now get out," Osborn said shortly, waving the Scrier away with a purple-gloved hand. 

"As you wish, my lord." The Scrier made obeisance to him once more and lowered his head as he left Osborn's presence, hurrying out of the office in order to put his master's commands into practice. 

Osborn was grateful for the respite. He liked the feeling of power the Scrier cabal gave him, but their fawning respect for him got on his nerves at times. He was determined to make sure that ceased in the future. Now, though, he had old schemes to wrap up and new ones to begin, so their wheedling rituals would have to wait for the moment. He sat back and picked up the phone on his desk to call some more of his associates. 

* * *

High above Osborn, through the skylight that adorned the center of his penthouse headquarters, the man called Kaine watched, silent as the grave. _This looks interesting_, he thought. Osborn was clearly gearing up towards doing something major. He had beheld the same look in Professor Warren's eyes when he had emerged from his birthing pod, swathed in sticky amniotic fluid and blinking in the antiseptic light of Warren's secret laboratory - the same hungry, callous look that meant pain and death for those who got in his way. Kaine felt the constant, agonizing fire in his cells grow just a little more virulent for a second at the memory. 

_Osborn is just like Warren_, he thought bitterly. _They both want to control people's lives utterly. Osborn has had more practice at it, though, and for that he must be stopped - stopped for good. I wonder how... Peter... dealt with him all these years without becoming... me_. It was a puzzle Kaine had no idea how to solve, and wasn't sure he should, either. 

Kaine was here because of his mutated spider-sense and the searing visions it forced upon him from time to time. It had told him to beware of the Green Goblin, in a flurry of words and pictures, sights and smells and sounds all mixed together in a whirling blur of sensations that Kaine's fevered brain had barely been able to assemble into a coherent order or meaning. All that he had been able to discern from the unsettling experience was that Osborn was involved in hurting Peter Parker, and for that, Kaine had vowed that once he had ascertained what it was that Osborn was doing to his genetic sire, he would make Osborn pay. And pay he would, of that Kaine was certain. 

He would pay dearly. 

Kaine peeled his dark blue mask off and took a few deep breaths of the cool evening air. He felt the slight tinge of moisture in the air settle on his ravaged features that were unrecognizable now as Peter Parker, the thick nose, blank brown eyes and matted brown beard marking him apart from the person who had provided his cells. He shook his shaggy mane of dark chestnut hair out with both of his scarred hands and coughed, spitting some flecks of bloody mucus out onto the concrete roof. Emotionlessly, he noted that today had been one of the bad days - if any of his days could be considered "good", they were the ones in which the degeneration decided to cut back to a slow, moderately painful crawl. Today, however, it seemed like his cells wanted to melt into a warm, sticky puddle of genetic soup as quickly, as agonizingly, as they could. He felt his ruined face twist in agony as a particularly sharp, vivid lance of pain shot through his body. He suspected that that was not a good sign. He needed to get some rest, and soon, or - 

"Kaine," said a soft, calm voice, "what do we do now?" The voice belonged to a man costumed in much the same way as Kaine, but a fraction of the size, looking like a child next to Kaine's bearlike, brutal frame. His costume was a uniform black, the color of a funeral shroud, with few distinguishing features. Mirrored lenses hid the stranger's eyes from the world, but Kaine imagined that he could see fine - after all, Kaine himself had modeled the eyepieces after the ones in his own and Parker's masks. He thought that the stranger would appreciate such improvisation. 

"We go to Peter, my friend," Kaine replied flatly. "I have... I have a hunch that wherever Osborn's plan is, Peter will be headed there. The Green Goblin has to be stopped, and Peter, fool that he is, doubtless feels that he is the one to do it." 

"A hunch?" the black-clad figure asked skeptically. "And that's enough for us to go on? Kaine, I need more than just a hunch -" 

Kaine rose up off his haunches and towered above his companion, sinews and muscles bulging, glaring at the other man with enough force to bore a hole in him. 

"Enough," he said hoarsely, absently feeling more blood fleck his chin. "Don't ask questions. We have to help Peter Parker. It's what I was born for, and it's what I'll die doing. He won't want my help, I know, but he'll get it anyway. I don't think he'll give a damn about you, one way or the other."

"You're wrong, Kaine," the stranger said. "You're wrong about a lot of things." 

Kaine smiled crookedly, his battered lips exposing teeth that were still in remarkably good shape, and which gleamed hungrily in the fading light." We'll see, my friend. We'll see." 

* * *

Elsewhere, Spider-Man fought for his life. Before him stood a slavering monstrosity that looked as if it had been stitched together from pieces of movie monsters, all claws and teeth and bad attitude. Three of its fellows lay sprawled on the ground, unconscious from Spider-Man's blows. Spider-Man himself had had his costume torn by their teeth and claws, and he was rapidly running out of patience. He wondered how long it would be before more than his long underwear got torn, and then tried not to think about it. 

The beast itself, like its stunned companions, was shaped vaguely like a greyhound, but instead of being thin and sinewy, it bulged with muscles and reached up to Spidey's waist, its slobbering jaws full of needle-sharp teeth and gooey black saliva. Its four red eyes glittered with murderous intent, a low growl coming from the base of its throat. Suddenly, it sprang. 

_Oh, boy... why do I always get the killer mutant doggies?_ Spidey wondered. _I'll bet Captain __America__ never has to deal with homicidal pets..._ As he leapt back out of the range of the beast's vicious jaws, Spidey couldn't figure out how Osborn had managed to create such hideous beasts - perhaps he'd been a _really_ good biology major in college, his mind whispered to him, in an attempt to raise at least a small smile beneath his mask - but he knew that this last mutant creature stood between him and his daughter, and for that it could not be allowed to remain standing for much longer. 

"Hey, Fido!" he shouted, aiming his webshooters at each other in order to create a solid glob of webbing, about the size of a baseball, in the palms of his hands. "Catch!" He threw the web-ball with all his strength, and it splattered messily into the hideous creature's face, gumming its gaping jaws together and rendering it unable to sink its teeth into him, which Spidey counted as a good sign. It snarled - an oddly nasal sound now that its jaws couldn't move - and swiped at him with its massive front paws, the razor-sharp talons on the end of them whistling audibly through the air like steak knives. 

"Yikes!" Spidey exclaimed as he sprang backwards, his spider-sense screeching, and felt the air slicing palpably as the vicious, serrated claws whooshed past his face.  Ducking under another swipe, he grabbed a handful of the beast's loose underbelly, and, placing his other hand under the thing's hind legs, he threw it into a nearby fir tree, hard enough to knock the wind out of it, but not hard enough to kill it. It was an ugly sucker, true, and it had a temper worse than J. Jonah Jameson's before his first cigar, but it didn't deserve to die simply for doing what it had been created to do, Spider-Man decided. It whimpered and tried to stand, and then wisely decided to stay down, its legs refusing to work. 

"Good boy," Spidey said, and patted the unconscious creature on the top of its hideous, lumpy head with a gloved hand. "Stay here like a good doggy, and maybe Uncle Peter will give you a doggy chew later." Peter made sure that it couldn't follow him by spraying a layer of webbing across its sprawled body, doing the same to the other three unconscious monstrosities before he left. He didn't want to be bitten in the butt by any of them on the way back - not by a long shot. 

Looking upwards, Spidey picked out a low branch and snagged it with a webline, swinging as far as he could before abandoning it and somersaulting three times to come to earth again. It was going to take a little longer to get to Osborn's lodge this way, true, but this wasn't Manhattan and there weren't as many places to attach a webline to. In which case... Spidey gathered his strength in his calves and powered himself up into the treetops, grabbing a sturdy branch and pivoting himself up on top of it like a monkey. "What do you know - I'm the king of the swingers," he muttered wryly to himself. "King Louie eat your heart out." He was well-aware - painfully aware, in fact - that this was not the time for wisecracks, but he was desperate to keep himself from sobbing. Spying another couple of possible swing points, he leapt and stretched out both hands for them. As soon as he did so he felt his spider-sense sing like a banshee in warning, and he had to redirect himself in mid-air, using the body of a nearby tree to anchor himself so that he could see what his spider-sense had been so worried about. Now that he could see it up close, he saw that the branch was fractured ever-so-slightly at the base; something that he had missed in the dimness of the thick, soupy gloaming which now engulfed the woodland. The edges were smooth; they had evidently been cut with a saw. Apparently someone had anticipated him approaching from above, and had prepared adequate defenses. They wouldn't have stopped him, of course; simply slowed him up, but it seemed prudent now that he travel the old-fashioned way - on foot. 

Dropping to the ground, he accelerated to a run and jumped thirty feet in a single leap. Web-slinging might be faster, but this would be safer than falling to the ground from the treetops, he decided. Spider-Man wondered if Osborn had any security here at all, apart from the freaks and mutants he had cobbled together as if from pieces of corpses. He thought that with his old enemy coming for him, Osborn would have splashed out on a high-end mercenary army, with the latest in Stark-Fujikawa and Hammertech high-performance weaponry, and the best training that his considerable amounts of money could buy. If Osborn was really serious about keeping his worst foe out, he might even have hired the Wild Pack. It didn't matter anyway - Osborn had May Parker, an innocent child. Peter Parker's child. And Peter Parker, not Spider-Man, would resolve this situation any way he could. 

Y_ou'll pay, Norman Osborn. If I have to drag you to the gates of Hell myself, you'll pay. I promise you that_. 

Seeing that the way ahead was virtually choked with a hedge that gleamed with murderous spines, Spidey covered his hands with a thick layer of webbing to act as a pair of makeshift gloves, and prepared to tear his way through it. Grasping the thick, heavy branches of the hedgerow, he tore the plant up by its roots and threw it to one side where it entangled a large conifer in its strangling embrace. Spider-Man ignored it and pushed onwards, using his fists as piledrivers in order to create a tunnel for himself. 

_I'm coming, Norman. You had better be ready_. 

* * *

Mary Jane Watson-Parker sat in the lounge of her home, the lights dimmed and the TV on. She had put it on almost by reflex after Peter had left, as if to distract herself from what was going on around her. CNN had just reported that earthquakes in Latveria were being attended to by Doctor Doom's android servitors, and that von Doom's administration staff had refused all offers of outside help in Doom's "unfortunate absence", even from the Red Cross. Mary Jane found it extremely hard to empathize with the poor, disadvantaged people of Latveria, and that worried her. How selfish of her was it to compare her private pain to that very public suffering that the poor, downtrodden peasantry of that country were experiencing? She did not know, and that worried her even more. She considered ringing in to donate some of her meager savings (and they were meager indeed, and MJ knew it) to the earthquake relief fund number that was flashed up on the screen, but she thought it useless - Doom's people were refusing to accept it, then what was the point, other than to massage affluent Americans' inflamed and oversensitive egos? She didn't know. She picked up the remote and switched to CNBC. Trish Tilby was on, reporting on Robert Downey Jr. and his wild lifestyle again. Mary Jane wanted to reach out into the TV and strangle the woman as she blathered on in her well-manicured, oh-so-perfectly-made-up way. 

_Who cares?_ she thought angrily. _Who cares if he ruins his life? It was his decision, not someone else's! He chose to do it! He didn't - He didn't have a madman dogging his every step and manipulating every aspect of his life. That's what this is all about, MJ, isn't it? Norman Osborn. It's no use telling yourself that you don't care, because you do care, don't you? You want to know if your baby is alive after all. What if she is alive? Are you ready to be a mother yet? Could you really handle it? And what if your husband brings back a body? Could you really handle that? Could you bury your firstborn child?_

With a shrill double tone, the phone began to ring, sparing Mary Jane the pain of having to think that horrible decision through. Silently thanking God for small mercies, and for coincidences, MJ picked up the handset and put it to her ear. "Hello?" she said, her voice a little shaky. "Parker household." 

"Mary Jane?" said an official-sounding voice on the other end. "Mary Jane Watson?" 

"Mary Jane Watson-_Parker_," MJ said in order to correct the voice. "But yes, otherwise that's me." 

"Of... course, Mrs. Watson-Parker," the voice said, a little more coolly than before. "My name is Wendy Friedberg and I represent Virtuoso Modeling." 

That made MJ sit up. "You... you do?" 

"Yes, Mrs. Parker. We saw your maternity wear work and we were very impressed." 

_Apparently not enough to offer me a full-time job, though_, MJ thought bitterly. 

"I trust your baby is well?" 

MJ felt an invisible knife twist hard in her chest. "She's... she's fine, Ms. Friedberg. She's... just fine." 

"Good, good." The voice sounded totally unaware of the faux pas it had just committed. "Now, Mary Jane, I'd like to discuss a one-time offer of a catalogue shoot. As I say, it wouldn't be a fulltime contract but I assure you that you would be well paid for your services. What do you say, Mary Jane?" 

Mary Jane bit her lip. _Oh, God, why now? Just when I have bigger things on my mind, this comes up. What if my baby is alive? I'd need the money to pay for most of the things she'd need straight away. I could buy her a baby crib. I could buy her a teddy bear. I could... I could..._

"Mary Jane? What do you say?" said the voice, sounding a little impatient. 

_On the other hand, this might be a fresh start for Peter and me as well. We certainly need the money right now._ That thought helped her to make her mind up. 

"Yes, Ms Friedberg, why not? When do I start?" 

"Splendid. Why not indeed? We start shooting next week, Wednesday morning, nine o'clock sharp. Don't be late." The voice paused for a moment and then added "I trust you know where our premises are?" 

"I have some idea," MJ said, a ghost of a smile appearing on her lips. "It's just opposite Bloomingdales', isn't it?" 

"That's right," the woman said in an appreciative tone. MJ was convinced she was happy not to be dealing with an airhead model for once. 

"That's great. I'll see you on Wednesday, then." MJ heard the slight click on the other end of the line and then let out a little whoop of joy. This could be the new start you've been looking for, Mary Jane. We could be on our way... 

* * *

The woods had finally parted, the pale light from the moon reflecting off Spidey's eyepieces and casting two oval discs of light onto the leaf-strewn ground in front of him. Peter felt numerous scratches and cuts stinging in the chilly air, laid bare as they had been where his costume had caught and torn on the prickly foliage.  

_This is why I'm glad I live in Manhattan_, he thought with a sour grimace. He squinted towards the large wooden building that formed Osborn's hunting lodge. There appeared to be no outer protection of any sort, which made Spidey extremely nervous. This wasn't like Osborn at all, he realized uneasily. Norman wasn't the type to leave any bases uncovered. _But then again, he's never unprotected, is he? He has the Goblin to fight his battles for him_. 

Peter felt a bitter, angry shudder run own his spine. Whether it was the dour, silent stand-in he had employed on several previous occasions, or the howling, screeching maniac that Norman became when he wore the mask, the Goblin had to be close by. Peter could smell the stink of it, could recognize the stale odor of death that the Goblin brought with it wherever it went. 

_Gwen, Harry, May... No. Not my daughter. She's alive; I won't believe she's dead._

"They're waiting for you, you know," said a voice that sounded like his own, except deeper, thicker, harsher. Peter jumped, for a moment stunned that his spider-sense had not gone off, until he realized who it was that had spoken to him. He had never really got used to hearing his own voice coming out of someone else's mouth. 

"Kaine," he whispered in a low tone, before spinning around on the point of one foot, a lethally quick blow aimed at Kaine's mangled face. Kaine simply held up one massive hand and caught Peter's fist effortlessly before it even got anywhere near his shaggy visage. 

"Don't bother struggling," Kaine said emotionlessly. "You should have learned by now that I'm stronger than you." To illustrate his point, he squeezed Peter's hand a little, and Peter screamed as the delicate, tiny bones were crushed together agonizingly, almost to the point of shattering. Kaine let go just before they were turned to powder, Peter gasping for breath and shaking his hand out to get some blood flowing back into it. "I trust you're going to listen to me now?" 

"Why _should_ I listen to you?" Peter asked, his voice still wracked with pain as his hand throbbed dully. "Why should I trust the word of a murderer?" His thoughts suddenly turned to another visage of himself, the man who was called Ben Reilly. "Why should I trust someone who tried to kill Ben - kill my only _brother_ - so many times?" 

"Because I say you should, Peter," Kaine said flatly. "I'm your brother too, remember. I'd never lie to my own flesh and blood." 

Peter snorted in contempt. "You're not my brother, Kaine. No brother of mine would kill. No brother of mine would maim people with that horrible burn of yours. No brother of mine would go on an insane quest to murder all of my old foes. You did." 

Kaine glared at Peter, his searing gaze cutting his "brother" to the core. "I seek no justification for my actions, Peter, save that I did what I did to protect your wife from my vision of her death. I tried to ensure that she would be safe. But then again, as I recall, it wasn't any of your old enemies that tried to kill her, was it? It was you, wasn't it, Peter? it was you who wanted to wrap your hands around her neck and squeeze until all the life was drained from her body, wasn't it?" 

Peter scowled under his mask, a painful memory brought bubbling to the surface, as if his mind had been charred by acid. "I couldn't help myself, Kaine," he said, his voice a low growl. "The Jackal, he did something to my mind -" 

"Spare me," Kaine said, his voice flat. "I know more about the Jackal than you'll ever know, Peter. Don't try to pretend that you were hard done by where my 'father' is concerned; I don't have much sympathy to give in that regard." 

"Enough, Kaine," Peter replied, folding his arms. "I don't want to discuss this - not when my daughter is so close - so I'll make it short: why do you want to help me?" 

"Because Osborn's madness cannot be allowed to infect an innocent child," Kaine replied emptily. "Even I, misshapen damned monster that I am, know that. So what do you say, Peter? Will you accept my help or not?" 

Before Peter could reply, the air was abruptly filled with a screeching explosion as a pumpkin bomb hit the ground close to where the two men were standing. Fragments of torn sod filled the air, along with a hail of small pebbles and tree roots. Stunned, both Kaine and Spider-Man looked up to see the horrifying form of the Green Goblin on his bat-glider hovering at about head-height, his horrific Halloween grin fixed on the pair of them. 

"Well, well, well," the Goblin said, his voice changed and obscured by the high-tech electronics in his mask, so that his voice became a higher, more maniacal sound, "what do we have here?"


	3. Goblin's Revenge: Part Three

Mary Jane dreamed.  
She dreamed of hovering green faces and manic red eyes. She dreamed of cribs and knives and bloody blankets, of sneering voices and of falling. Falling forever.  
Falling into a sea of blood that stretched as far as the eye could see, and feeling the thick metallic liquid fill her lungs so fast she couldn't breathe -  
_I'm going to die..._   
And then the phone rang, jarring her awake. She sat up, strands of her coppery hair falling into her eyes, and her clothes rumpled and wrinkled. Struggling to get her head together she fumbled for the handset, stumbling towards its cradle and grabbing it just before the answering machine kicked in.

"Hello, Mary Jane Parker speaking?" she said in a voice that sounded as if she were speaking through treacle. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was about one in the morning. _Who could be calling at this hour?_ she thought, confused. She didn't seem to be getting any answer, so she said "Hello?" again, just to make sure that the connection hadn't died. Still nothing. 

_Okay... I don't like this... _"Look, whoever you are, I know how to trace phone calls. You won't get away with this."   
Finally there came a sound on the other end. 

"I - I'm sorry." And then the connection finally died, leaving Mary Jane more confused than ever. _This is getting stranger and stranger_, she thought uneasily. Walking into the bedroom, she rooted around under the bed until she found what she was looking for - her .38 Special six-shot revolver. She hadn't fired it since that crazy business with Peter, Ben, and the third Parker clone who had turned out to be nothing more than a mutant monster, and she had no wish to do so again, but if she were being watched by unknown parties with Peter off who-knew-where playing superhero, she wanted to at least have some form of protection by her side. 

Sliding six bullet's into the gun's individual chambers, she pushed the gun under her pillow before she changed into her nightclothes and finally got into bed. Whichever evil wacko found her first would get a nasty surprise - of that she was certain.  
A part of her hoped that it would be Norman Osborn. 

* * *

Spider-Man ducked a pumpkin bomb and felt the heat of the explosion on his back, along with some fast-moving splinters of bark. Not that he paid much attention to them - he was concentrating on the man swooping and hovering above him on the Goblin-glider. He was concentrating on the ice-cold rage he could feel building in his gut. He had felt this rage only a couple of times before - once, when Gwendy had died, and again, when his only brother, Ben, had been speared in the back by the Goblin's deadly tinker toy. And now he felt it again as it seared his veins and burned through his mind, threatening to insinuate itself into every fiber of his being. His brain twisted around itself, rationalizing what he was about to do to the Goblin - to the man inside the Goblin - and it made Peter afraid.

"Stop running, Parker!" the Goblin taunted, shrieking with hideous, maddening laughter. "Fight me like a man!"

"Wouldn't be a fair fight, Norman," Peter said coldly. "You wouldn't know how." Leaping, he aimed a scything kick at the Goblin's head, striking hard on Osborn's temple and staggering him. The Goblin was only saved from falling by the glider's autopilot systems and the bootstraps that kept him anchored to the glider's wings.

"How dare you, Parker - how dare you strike your superior!" Osborn seemed to have forgotten about Kaine completely - a fact that Peter took in his stride, Osborn's vengeance seemed directed only at him, Kaine being mere incidental detail. Peter decided that he could use that to his advantage. Reaching out with his right hand, he snagged the rear of the glider with a webline and slammed it into the ground, hard, sending the Goblin tumbling to the floor, where he rolled for a while, his padded costume absorbing most of the impact. Nevertheless, he still looked dazed when he staggered to his feet - right in front of Kaine's towering figure. The massive clone dwarfed him, but Osborn was still not intimidated.

"Peter, I'm disappointed," Osborn said, tutting, as he rocked back and forth on his feet. "You really think that this creature - this _nothing_ - can hurt me?" 

Kaine replied in Peter's stead, hammering Osborn with a double-handed blow to the chin. 

"You're just like the others, Osborn," he said as he lumbered forwards and picked the Goblin up off the ground by the throat. "You think you're so very able to look down on others because of your power. You think you have the right to destroy Peter. That ends tonight, if I have anything to do with it." 

Osborn cocked his head to the right, the manic red eyes of the Goblin displaying no emotion. 

"Really?" he asked flatly. "Well, you'll have to do better than this, my misshapen friend." Raising his hands towards Kaine's face, he blasted the clone at point-blank range with all ten of his sparkle-blasters. Kaine roared in agony, dropping Osborn to clutch at his eyes instinctively, as they were singed by the intense light and heat of the blasts. Peter was momentarily concerned that Kaine might have been blinded by the flash, but he quickly remembered that Kaine was a lot tougher than he looked - which was saying something in itself. You couldn't stop Kaine short of shoving an I-beam through his chest or dropping a landslide of molten rock on his head. He'd survive. Unfortunately, Osborn was using the respite to call his battered flyer towards him again, and he was able to hop nimbly back on board as it flew close by him. After a few seconds he was ready to attack once more, and Peter braced himself to begin evading heavy debris showers again. Here, in the trees, the Goblin's flight path was limited at best, but with the added advantage of height, he could throw those lethal pumpkin bombs and razor bats of his with impunity, and with little fear of getting hurt. Peter had to even the odds somehow. 

Osborn swooped round for another pass and was reaching into his satchel for another bomb when he said, "Oh, Peter? While we're out here, what do you suppose is going on inside my lodge?" 

Peter paused, feeling his blood boil again. "You monster. If you've hurt my little girl -" 

"What?" the Goblin gloated. "What will you do? Expose me? Turn me over to the police?" He snorted with disgust. "You'll never do that - you know what would happen if you did, don't you? You expose me, and I'll expose you for the menace that you are. I'm sure J. Jonah Jameson would be more than happy to run the story in his dirty little rag. And what happens to Mary Jane then? What happens to your baby? All your enemies go after those two innocents in revenge for what you've done to them. They'll die, and you'll have to live with the knowledge that it was you that let it happen." 

"I'm guilty of a lot, Goblin, but I'll never be guilty of murder. I'm not like you," Peter said in revulsion, flipping over and over to avoid a hail of bombs and bats, the foliage around him shredded and burnt as the Goblin seemingly threw all of his arsenal into his offensive. Inwardly, Peter wondered how many more evil little toys the Goblin had tucked away in that little bag of his, and cursed himself for not bringing some left-over stingers with him; he thought the Goblin deserved at least a small measure of pain for what he had done. Outwardly, though, he kept his eye on the Goblin as Osborn swooped towards him, holding what looked to be a specially-sharpened razor bat in his hand. Peter could see the edge of the bat gleaming brightly in the moonlight, the cold steel glittering like the eyes of a snake. Peter immediately realized what the Goblin was trying to do, and started to gather his strength in his legs, ready for a leaping escape over the Goblin's head. 

"This is where we part company permanently, Parker!" the Goblin howled, his voice filling with even more insane venom and hatred for his old foe. 

Peter recognized, also, the arrogant, superior streak in the Goblin's voice - the same emotion seemed to be evident in all the people who pulled on the mask. The same emotion that made them overconfident, too, and that was what Peter was counting on right now. He leapt - The Goblin lashed out with the razor bat, the polished blade coming perilously close to Peter's abdomen, ready to slice eagerly through flesh and muscle and bone - 

And suddenly, the Goblin was tumbling to the ground again, a third man hugging onto his back like a limpet. The Goblin's damaged glider whined in protest as its engine was overtaxed, and the Goblin spiraled to earth. The stranger clung on all the while, fearlessly, slamming the Goblin's head into the dirt repeatedly as they impacted, in order to stun him - at least for a while. 

Spidey didn't recognize him - the costume wasn't one that he'd seen before, and he'd spent more than one evening in the company of the cream of New York's super-set. It was a full-body number, similar to Kaine's, but without the degeneration-slowing devices that Kaine wore, and colored like the Black Panther's regular duds. Peter hadn't a clue how to address the man, except with one word: "Thanks." 

"Not a problem," the stranger replied. His voice was unfamiliar. When he spoke it was with a pronounced electronic buzz, as if his mask was altering his voice somehow. Peter made a mental note to look into this guy at a later date, even if his spider-sense didn't think there was anything to worry about. "Anything I can do. You know how it is." 

"Uh... yeah," Spidey replied, slightly uneasily, and painfully aware of how little time they had before the Goblin resumed his attack once more. "Who _are_ you?" 

Peter thought he detected a slight half-smile beneath the man's mask. It lay close enough to his face to allow that much definition, at least. "I'm a friend of Kaine's," he replied after a few seconds' thought, which frankly made Peter even more uneasy. 

"A _friend_ of Kaine's?" he repeated sardonically. "Now I've heard everything." 

Kaine stumbled to his feet and staggered over to where Spidey and the mystery man were standing, his vision evidently not up to its usual standards yet, but getting back to it slowly. "I know it's a hard thing to believe, but he's telling the truth, Peter. He and I are here because of your daughter, as I explained. We were led here by Osborn's Scriers - my friend here helped me track them down." He waved Spidey towards the lodge with one massive paw. "Go - find your child. We two will deal with the Goblin when he wakes up." 

Peter nodded slowly. "Okay, Kaine. I'll come back, I promise." 

Kaine smiled. It made Peter's skin crawl. "If everything goes to plan, you won't have to." He offered Peter his hand - in friendship, it seemed. Peter grasped it uncertainly. With his free hand, Kaine gestured once again towards the lodge, then turned back towards the Goblin. "Good luck, Peter." 

Peter nodded silently, and sprang away from the two men, leaping towards the lodge and the prize - the prize that he had waited nine long months for - that it held within it. He considered going in through the front door, but instantly dismissed the idea as too dangerous; remembering what he had to endure on the way over here, he expected much the same to be waiting for him behind the heavy pine door. So, he snuck around the side of the lodge itself, looking for an alternative entrance. Seeing a window on the first floor, he clung to the building with his fingers and the tips of his toes, and crawled silently up towards it. When he got there he found that it was locked from the inside with a small handle-based lock. He felt a pang of guilt for a second as he prepared to punch his way through the thick double pane of glass - Uncle Ben would have frowned on breaking and entering, even under these kinds of circumstances - but was still able to plant his fist through the window with relative ease. 

Spider-Man fumbled for the catch and unlatched it so that he was able to crawl inside. Peter crouched for a second, expecting a flurry of blows to come raining down on his head from all directions. When that didn't happen, he straightened and began to examine his surroundings. His hand had been cut by a sharp edge on the window's broken glass, and stung as a result, but Peter counted that as a fair trade-off for what he was about to receive. Spraying a little web fluid onto the wound to keep it from bleeding any more, he knew that that was about as much first aid as it was going to get for now - at least until his regenerative powers kicked in. He didn't know exactly when that would be, though, so he decided to keep as low a profile as he could for the moment. Goblins or no Goblins, he wasn't going to bleed to death before he was able to look into his daughter's eyes for the first time. 

Looking about himself again, he saw that the lodge resembled one of the Escher posters he'd bought for his room as a kid - it seemed impossible. By all accounts it looked bigger now than it had when he'd been outside. He didn't exactly know who Norman had employed to build it for him, but Peter decided that he'd try to get them to build him a summer house like this when he was rich and famous. Although he conceded that that wouldn't be for a while yet. _Maybe if I do another book of Spider-Man photos_, he thought acidly, _I might be able to afford the first down payment on the doorstep on this place. In about twenty years' time... _

He tiptoed cautiously down the corridor, looking about himself anxiously, expecting an attack to come from any quarter. He saw a room up ahead, and he opened the door as quietly as he could. Glancing inside he saw nothing but a few empty cardboard boxes, a small can of petrol, and a couple of discarded Scrier costumes. He shuddered at the sight of them and shut the door quickly, turning around and walking away from the storeroom. _This place looks deserted. Not even a twinge from my spider-sense yet._ That, if anything, made him feel a lot less secure. 

Suddenly, Peter heard sounds coming from down the hallway to his left, and he spun on his heel, launching himself into a run as he did so. If the sounds were Norman's hoods, he could find a way to get them to tell him what Norman's plans were. If not... then he'd just have to keep searching. As he got closer and closer, Spidey could make out what the sounds were, and the realization made him run all the faster.  
"I'm coming, sweetheart!" he yelled. "Daddy's here!" _Daddy's here._  
  
He rounded a corner to see two sets of double doors either side of the passageway, and he could hear the cooing and gurgling sounds coming from the doors to his left. He could feel a huge lump forming in his throat, his vision blurring as he did so. He risked raising his mask to wipe away the tears before quickly setting it down over his face again, Running towards the noises quickly, he near ripped the doors off their hinges in his hurry, and found a small wooden crib placed centrally in the room. Trying to refrain from shouting with joy, Peter tentatively tiptoed forwards and found something curled in the thick blankets that filled the cot. Reaching out with his uninjured hand, he moved the blankets back gently - 

- and found nothing but a small doll, and a tape recorder playing a looped soundtrack of baby noises. Taped to the doll was a single sheet of paper, on which was written "GOTCHA! N.O." 

_No..._ "_Where is she, Goblin?!!_" Peter yelled, enraged, and picked up the crib, hurling it and its contents across the room, the wood shattering as it impacted against the far wall. He felt an agony so pure, so intense, that it tore at his heart like a ravening beast. He could not find voice for his anger, save to scream at his unseen tormentor "Where's my baby?! _Where is she!?_" It was only then that, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the shadowy figure standing in the eaves of the entrance to the room, and only then that he noticed his spider-sense had been dulled to the point of not functioning. The faint, almost imperceptible mist in the air confirmed his worst fears, and he felt his heart sink into the pit of his stomach in horror. The Goblin's trademark gas and Peter's own preoccupations had combined to totally cancel out his spider-sense and make him fall for this utterly obvious ploy, leaving him helpless against whatever Norman had planned for him. _Mary Jane, I'm sorry_ - Before he could even finish that thought, he felt the obscured figure's brutal fist against the base of his skull, and he was wrapped in the blissful embrace of oblivion. 

* * *

Kaine watched his friend somersaulting through the air with the grace if an acrobat and the fierce, unrestrained poise and power of a born hunter. The  
Goblin seemed out of bombs and razor bats, but Kaine knew to expect the unexpected from this particular variety of maniac - in his few run-ins with the Hobgoblin, he had learned that anyone insane enough to ride a Goblin-glider was not to be trifled with. He leapt back from a sizzling sparkle blast that carved a smoking rut in the ground where his feet had been a second before, his intuition vindicated. Suddenly he felt a searing, agonizing pain at the very core of his soul, a pain that seemed to slice his being in half. 

_No... not a vision... not now... _He felt the vision take hold more completely, felt his mind being torn apart. He felt the outside world melt away, and he curled in on himself, assuming a fetal position to try and reduce the agony of the premonition. Futile, he knew, but it was a simple instinct that he could no more suppress than he could take conscious control of. Opening his eyes he saw the triumphant form of Norman Osborn towering, like the Colossus of Rhodes, over the prostrate body of Spider-Man, the hero's costume ripped and tattered. Osborn's face was lit by a madness Kaine knew all too well, and he was laughing. Kaine felt his soul chilled to its center by the insane sound. 

_Osborn - triumphant?_ he thought, confused. _But - how can that be? How can he be with Peter when he is... here?_

And then, abruptly, the vision was gone. Kaine felt like throwing up as a wave of intense nausea washed over him. Looking up through eyes made blurry by the effects of the vision, he saw his friend in close combat with the Goblin, fists and feet his only weapons now - agility and evasiveness had been put to one side, it seemed. Kaine stumbled to his feet, wobbling for a second as as all the blood in his body seemed to flow directly to the veins in his temples, where it threatened to explode from his body altogether. And then he was standing again, his sight clearing rapidly. He summoned all his strength and began to run towards the two combatants. He felt hot rage searing his mind as he saw the Goblin land a heavy, brutal punch on his friend's jaw, and as he heard the madman's evil laughter ringing through the forest like a hyena standing over a kill. 

"No!" he screamed. 

"Kaine, help me!" his friend said hurriedly, grabbing the Goblin's gloved hands as the manic villain tried to grasp his throat. 

"Take off the mask!" Kaine lumbered forwards and grasped the long purple cap that crowned the Green Goblin's mask, tearing it off in one fluid motion.  
  
The stranger watched as the Goblin withdrew his gloved hands from his throat to try and keep the ugly mask on - with little success, since Kaine was so much stronger than him. "Time to face the music, Osborn," he said in triumph as the mask slid up and over his foe's chin and from there up towards his nose and eyes. When it had been removed, the stranger felt unable to suppress a gasp of horror and shock. 

"Harry?" _Harry Osborn?!_

Suddenly there was a familiar whine, and both Kaine and the stranger looked up to see what looked like _another_ Goblin swooping in towards them, an unconscious Spider-Man slung over his shoulder. This new Goblin reached into his small bag of tricks and threw a couple of pumpkin bombs down towards the two men. They impacted close together, spewing out a large cloud of greenish gas as they bounced off the earth, intact but for their gas caps at their tops. The unknown hero coughed, the gas seeping under his mask and leaving an acrid, ashen taste in his mouth. It affected him almost immediately, making his eyes water and his lungs protest violently. He felt his legs wobbling and he realized that the other Goblin had been a decoy. The real threat had been waiting in the shadows all along, and they had played right into his perfect little trap. With his vision blurring, he looked up at the new Goblin as it swooped low and dismounted from the glider to stand before him like a king triumphant. He watched the mask slip off, and then he saw what looked to be the face of the devil himself - the gloating visage of Norman Osborn. 

"You're not... getting away... with this... Osborn," he said through lips that were refusing to co-operate. "We'll... stop you." 

"You can't even stand up," Osborn said sneeringly. "You're pathetic. You've been a thorn here for too long." With that, he kicked the young hero across the face, and that was the last thing the stranger knew.  
  
Kaine watched his friend being abused by Norman Osborn, and he felt anger boil at the base of his skull, behind his eyes, and in the pit of his stomach; all the deep, dark places inside his twisted body burned with rage that he felt unable to release, thanks to his body's induced weakness. Trying to shrug off the effects of the gas - which was easier for him because of his size - he charged Osborn, roaring with rage. Osborn glanced over towards his rapidly-advancing frame and squared his shoulders towards the massive clone, looking up at him with no fear in his eyes. As Kaine closed on him, Osborn simply stepped aside and aimed a quick, hard blow at the back of Kaine's head with the edge of one hand. Kaine realized that he shouldn't have even felt it, normally, but now it felt like he was being hit with a sledgehammer. He crashed to the ground, his head spinning. 

Standing over him, Osborn laughed coldly and looked down at his fallen foe, slipping the mask back over his striking features with an evil, satisfied chuckle. "I thought Peter might try this," he said, putting a gloved hand to his chin. "I didn't expect to see you with him, though." He smiled beneath the mask, and Kaine felt a shudder running down his spine; a feeling he was unused to, and one he did not care to feel again. 

"No matter," Osborn continued. "You'll all die sooner or later." Osborn's cold laughter began to echo through Kaine's mind as he felt his limbs stop working, and then he lost his grip on consciousness, unsure of whether he'd ever regain it again.


	4. Goblin's Revenge: Part Four

Peter opened his eyes, and then immediately wished he hadn't, as he felt a vicious headache slam into his brain like a car accident. Continuing with that train of thought, he said in a voice made hoarse by the dryness in his throat, "Anybody... anybody get the number of that truck?" He tried to sit up, but found that he couldn't. His limbs were not responding to his wishes. At first he panicked, thinking that the Goblin had left him a cripple as part of some twisted revenge scheme. Then he noticed that he could still feel his body; it just did not respond to him. He guessed, then, that it was the Goblin's gas that was keeping him down like this, and he realized that it would wear off eventually. The fact that he wasn't paraplegic sent a wave of relief running down his spine. 

   Looking as far to his left and right as he could, he saw that both Kaine and the masked stranger were in the same situation. He tried to raise his voice in order to get their attention when the stranger said, "It's all right, Peter. We're both alive. You don't have to shout." 

Peter felt relieved, but also troubled at the fact that both he and his allies were helpless in the clutches of Norman Osborn. He didn't like that idea one bit. Trying to take his mind off that unpleasant notion, he said "Not exactly a champagne breakfast, is it?" 

   "I thought the same. Maybe we should sue the management," the stranger said with a wry tone in his voice. 

   "Shut up, the pair of you," Kaine said abruptly, as if he were scolding a pair of naughty schoolchildren. "Don't waste your strength." 

   Peter had to admit that Kaine had a point. He didn't want to waste what little energy he had left on pointless banter, so he said in a whisper "The Green Goblin did this to you as well?" 

   "Yes," the stranger said. "He hit Kaine and me with some kind of gas grenade. It took both of us out before we had a chance to fight back." He paused, a slight note of apprehension in his voice. "Look, there's something you should know. The Goblin – he wasn't Norman Osborn." 

   "What?" Peter couldn't believe it. "Then who was it?" 

   "It wasn't just somebody Osborn grabbed off the street and injected with the Goblin formula, Peter. It… it was Harry Osborn. He's back." 

   Peter felt his heart sink. "No," he said stubbornly. "That's not true. It can't be. I was there when Harry died. I watched them bury him. Harry Osborn is gone." 

   "I really don't want to say this, but... you said that about Norman, too," the stranger said. 

Peter still felt extremely skeptical about the idea that Harry was back. Uncle Ben and Aunt May – God have mercy on their souls, he thought automatically – had taught him that once you were gone, you didn't come back. That belief had been rocked by the return of Doctor Octopus from the great beyond, and the seeming resurrection of countless other super-criminals, but it was still a part of him, and it was not so easily defeated. 

   Suddenly, the heavy oaken door to their room began to rumble open, the sounds on the other side indicating a large iron bolt was being slid back. It wavered for a moment before light streamed into the room in the form of a bright rectangle. Spider-Man looked upwards as much as he could, to see the imposing figure of Norman Osborn stride into the cell, the garish green and purple of his Goblin costume muted slightly as he stepped into the gloom inside the cell. Behind him followed a smaller man who Spidey couldn't see at first, because the elder Osborn's body obscured him. Spidey tried in vain to twist himself into a better position, and then Norman stepped aside, and Peter was able to see that the black-clad stranger had been telling the truth. 

   It was Harry. The same nervy, shy Harry that Peter had known before he had been driven insane by his father's mad legacy, and pulled on the shroud of the Green Goblin as a shield against the pain of living. Before he had dropped acid and cracked up. Before he had bribed a coroner to fake an autopsy report on a corpse that wasn't a corpse. 

   Before... everything. 

   _How is this possible?_ Peter thought desperately. _How can Harry be alive again? I thought it was the Goblin formula that killed him. I saw it kill him. I saw it._ Peter's keen scientific mind raced through possibilities like a fire through gasoline. There had to be a rational explanation for all of this, somehow. It was up to him to find it out. _Maybe... maybe I was wrong about the effect the serum had on Harry in the first place,_ Peter thought. _Maybe he was put into suspended animation like Mendel Stromm. Maybe he's been lying in his grave, alive, all this time. _

   And then there was the strange incident that Peter had thought nothing of at the time – during the "Spiderhunt", as the Daily Bugle had called it, Peter had heard little Normie Osborn call the Goblin his "daddy." "Don't hurt my daddy!" the boy had said. Peter had put that down to the boy's confused state of mind, and the misguided belief that Normie's new Goblin was his father come back to protect him from the mean Spider-Man. But now, seeing the evidence with his own eyes, Peter had to consider the possibility that the boy, however unwittingly, had been right all along. 

   Before he could mull over the unsettling thought any longer, the elder Osborn spoke. "Good morning," he said, in his rich baritone. "I trust you three slept well?" 

   Peter felt an uncontrollable urge to spit on Osborn's shiny Gucci shoes. "Why should you even care, Norman?" 

   Osborn smiled thinly and spread his hands wide. "Oh, come now, Peter, you do me wrong. You three are my guests; it's simply common courtesy. Or don't they teach you that in public schools?" 

   Spider-Man ignored the pointed jibe. "Let's just cut to the chase, Osborn. Where's my daughter?" 

   Osborn's eyes widened. "What? No glib remark? No witty rejoinder? Peter, you do disappoint me." 

   "Shut up." Peter felt his blood boiling, and, at the same time, he felt warmth beginning to spread to the outer areas of his body. The paralysis was beginning to wear off. Good. "Where's my baby?" he asked again, a little more shortly this time. 

   Norman frowned, his features darkening visibly. Peter imagined he was pleased by this turn of events, despite appearances to the contrary. "What makes you think she's even here, Peter? For all you know, I could have sent Mongrain to lie to you. This whole thing could have been my plan from the start, and you walked right into it, didn't you, Peter?" 

   "No," Peter said bluntly. "My daughter is alive. I know it." 

   "Maybe she was, until you broke that upstairs window," Osborn said, pouncing on Peter's momentary weakness. He smiled. Peter felt as if he were staring at the gateway to Hell. "Maybe as soon as I heard that, I snapped her fragile little neck like a twig. Babies' bones are _so _easy to destroy." 

   Peter screamed. 

* * *

   Mary Jane sashayed her way down the catwalk, wearing the latest clothes from the best manufacturers. In front of her a sweating, lank-haired photographer kept telling her to pout more, to toss her hair occasionally, and to show a little more energy and involvement in what she was modeling. She kept wanting to tell him to shove his camera up where his breakfast was currently residing, but, since the catalogue people were paying her a good deal of money to do this for them, she kept quiet and put up with the irritating little man. _It's better than sitting at home worrying about Peter_, she thought bitterly, as she changed from one set of clothes into another. For a change, these were clothes that she might actually want to wear on the street. Comfortable, and showing just enough flesh to be interesting without getting scandalous. Reapplying her lipstick quickly, she stepped out of the changing area and back into the harsh glare of the studio lights, and the equally harsh glare of the irate photographer. 

   "Let's go, Mary Jane, let's go!" he said, waving her back towards the set they were using. "I can't have any more time go to waste!" 

   _Jerk,_ MJ thought, rolling her eyes while trying not to be conspicuous. _Let's see you stay lively after three hours under these lights. Aloud, she said, "Sure, Mr. Hollerton, just give me a second." _

   "A second, a second, all you women ever seem to want is 'one more second!'" The photographer threw his hands up theatrically and wiped his brow with a silk handkerchief. 

   _I'm going to hit him,_ Mary Jane thought as she fluffed her hair with her hands and tried to look alluring while still drawing attention to the clothes she was wearing. _One more time, and I'm really going to break his jaw. _

   "That's it, Mary Jane," the photographer said, his shutter clicking away like a cicada tied around his neck. "Just a few more shots, and we can finish this off." 

_   Thank God. MJ heard the last few clicks of the camera and felt a wave of relief wash over her as the little man unhooked the camera from his shoulders and stowed it away in the leather case on a table behind him. Away from the device, he seemed amiable enough, as he had been before the shoot had started. _

   "Thank you, Mary Jane," he said. "It's been a pleasure working with you." 

   _I wish I could say the feeling was mutual_, MJ thought. She cleared her throat and shook the hand that he offered with as cordial a smile as she could manage, and then she left the studio and found Wendy Friedberg waiting outside the door. 

   "You do good work, Mary Jane," the other woman said politely, as if she were complimenting MJ on a new trouser suit or a successful haircut. 

   "Thank you, Ms Friedberg," MJ said breathlessly. "I hope that we get the chance to work together sometime in the future." She slapped herself on the wrist mentally. She hadn't meant that to sound quite so money-grubbing. Fortunately, the other woman hadn't taken it that way, or if she had, she wasn't showing it. 

   "I hope so, too, Mary Jane," she said. "You're a beautiful woman, and shallow as it may sound, beauty sells our catalogues. We'll call you if you need your services again." 

   "Thank you," MJ said again. _That's what I wanted to hear_, she thought happily. Taking the elevator down to the reception area, she walked towards the revolving doors at the front of the building and out into the sunshine. She felt the warmth on her face and reveled in it for a second or two before she put her sunglasses on and started walking towards the subway station. 

   "Mary Jane Watson?" said a timid female voice suddenly. MJ swung her head round to see where it had come from, and she saw an expectant-looking woman standing nervously, wringing her hands. 

   "Yes?" MJ asked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "What can I do for you?" 

   "Could you sign this for me?" the woman asked, holding out a small notebook. "It's just I was a big fan of 'Secret Hospital' and I'd really love to have your autograph. Sybil was my favorite character. So bitchy." The recollection drew a little smile to the woman's pale face. 

   MJ smiled in return. This kind of fan she could deal with. "I suppose she was. Who do I make this out to?" 

   "Paula Jones," the woman said. "Thank you so much, Ms. Watson. You just made my day. Wait till I tell my best friend about this!" 

   MJ felt her smile widen into a grin. "Is she a big fan too, Paula?" 

   "Oh yes. She watched every episode with me at work. We talked about it all the time." 

   "Well, why don't I give you an autograph for her as well? It's no trouble." 

   "Would you?" Paula asked, astonished. "Oh, that would great; I'd be so grateful, and so would Anna - that's my friend's name. She'll never believe me otherwise!" 

   "Maybe this'll convince her, then," MJ replied. "It's people like you and your friend that make me glad I was on that show." She signed another page in the woman's notebook and wished her a good day before continuing on her way towards the subway. _I've got fans coming out of the woodwork today, MJ thought reflectively. _I suppose I must be doing something right. __

* * *

   Peter could feel his heart almost bursting from his chest. Norman's mind games were beginning to get the better of him, no matter how much he tried to ignore them. What if what he had said was true? What if, as he had intimated, he had snapped Peter's child in half like a fragile china doll? What if, even now, little May's lifeless body were adorning the New Jersey garbage ferry like so much discarded furniture? 

   The thought made Peter want to scream again, to scream until his lungs were raw and he coughed up blood, but he did not want to give further voice to his fears. He would not give Osborn that satisfaction. Not again. He'd lost his temper too many times where the Goblin was concerned. He would not give Osborn an inch.   
Not an inch.   
Not one. 

   He grit his teeth and stayed quiet. Norman Osborn tipped his head to one side and said "I could kill you, you know, Peter, but I think living will be more painful for you now. You can have just a slight taste of the pain I had to endure when you killed my son. My boy Harry. The boy I had to sweat blood for, to keep him in clothes and toys and books. The boy I had to watch die." 

   "You were never a good father, Norman," Peter snarled in contempt. "Where were you when your son needed you the most? You were in meetings. At your office. With your work -" Osborn leapt at Spider-Man, wrapping his hands around Peter's neck savagely. Paralyzed as he was, Peter could nothing while Norman tried to choke the life out of him. 

   "Shut up!" Norman howled. "No one can say I wasn't a good father to my son! No one!" 

   "I... can," Peter croaked, feeling his larynx try to climb out his throat. He gurgled as his airway was blocked, and he started to see black and red-tinged circles on the edges of his vision. He felt a little satisfaction at having played Norman so well, but that was simultaneously melded with a bitter realization that all the satisfaction in the world was useless if you weren't around to enjoy it later. 

   Abruptly the pressure was released. Peter gasped, astonished to see the mystery man springing upright from Osborn's prostrate body. _That's two I owe that guy,_ his mind noted dispassionately. _I have to find out who he is, or he'll never collect on that debt. _Still unable to move, Spidey could only watch as his unknown savior launched a vigorous attack on the Goblin. Peter found himself wishing that his limbs would work and that he could join in the battle, but he kept quiet, not wishing to draw unnecessary attention to himself while he couldn't fight back. He'd do his part when the time came. For now, he simply observed. 

   The black-clad man landed a hard right hand on Osborn's unprotected jaw, and the Goblin reeled. "How does that feel, Osborn?" he cried. "How does it feel to be in pain, like the people whose lives you ruined - who you destroyed? You ruined Peter's life - you ruined Harry's life - you ruined _my_ life! You've ruined the lives of everyone around you! And for that you have to pay." 

   At that moment, the one who Spidey had hoped was not Harry sprang to life, crying "You can't say that to my father!" He ran towards the black-clad stranger and made as if to drag him off of Norman, but the stranger just jerked his arm and threw the smaller, weaker "Harry" off into the wall. Norman glared at him with eyes no longer focused on his battle with the stranger. 

   "I don't know why I made you," he said in a voice like cut glass. "You're even more pathetic than my real son." He snapped his fingers with a sound like the crack of a rifle. Everyone in the room - even the mystery man - turned to look at "Harry", to see what Osborn had done to him, giving Osborn an opportunity to get back up to his feet. 

   "Dad, what -" "Harry" said, his eyes wide with fear as he started to degenerate. "Why -" He got no further, his hands divested of their substance, as was the rest of his body, as it turned in an instant from flesh and bone and skin and muscle and hair into a uniform, gelatinous mass that settled into a sticky, lifeless puddle on the floor of the chamber. Spidey shuddered at the all-too-familiar sight and turned his eyes away. 

_   Another clone, Peter thought sadly. _I should have guessed. Poor Harry_. _

   Beside him, Kaine roared and staggered to his feet a little unsteadily, the effects of the poison finally wearing off. At the same time, Peter felt his sluggish limbs finally begin to respond to his commands, and he stumbled to his feet alongside his clone. Kaine said nothing, but instead launched himself at Osborn, followed by Spider-Man. Osborn snarled like a cornered dog and reached into his bag of tricks for a pumpkin bomb. He hurled it with a looping pitching action, forcing Spider-Man to drag his tired body aside so that the explosive globe impacted to his left. 

   "You're not getting away with this, Osborn," he said in a voice made hoarse by his own inner pain, both at seeing his best friend die for a second time, and at the notion that his baby was lost to him again. "You're not." 

   "Watch me, insect," Osborn hissed. He fended off a hard right from Kaine with both hands, the effort clearly taking a lot out of him as he countered with a savate kick to the huge man's ribs and an open-handed blow to Kaine's ruined face, while he struck the mystery man with a backhanded fist that sent him sprawling like a stray shop dummy. Kaine spat blood as his lower lip was torn open, and growled deep in his throat. Spidey flipped and handsprung over to where the two other men were locked into mortal combat, squirting a thick strand of webbing at the Goblin's right hand, coating both it and the pumpkin bomb in its grasp in a gooey cocoon. Osborn panicked and tore at the webbing with his free hand, hot smoke seeping through the webbing showing that the bomb was ready to blow. Spidey used the Goblin's momentary distraction to sock him hard across the jaw with bloodied, aching knuckles. He experienced just a little remorse about feeling more satisfaction than he should have done, but the feeling soon passed. Against Norman, he figured he had a right to suspend the trademark Parker guilt. Spinning out a short strand of webbing, Peter used it to catapult himself towards his bitter foe. 

   "What's the matter, Norman?" Peter asked, mockingly, as he leapt towards the Goblin, his hands outstretched. "No snappy comebacks? You must be losing your touch." 

   "Anything but, Peter," Osborn said in a sibilant hiss. He raised one hand and unloaded the full capacity of his glove's sparkle blasters, the effort leaving the glove scorched and smoking. Unable to correct his trajectory as he swung towards Osborn, Peter felt it slam into his chest, and though he rolled with the blast, he could still smell the hair on his chest burning as it was incinerated by the blast's intense heat. The skin underneath it crackled like pork on a spit, but Peter ignored the pain. He'd heal, given a night to recover. 

   His two allies, meanwhile, had joined forces to prevent Osborn from following up on his hated foe. The mystery man was clinging to Osborn's left arm, preventing him from easily grabbing any more toys, and Kaine was hammering the Goblin with both hands, blows like those of a piledriver slamming repeatedly into Osborn's body. Osborn's eyes were filled with a wordless, soulless rage that Peter knew would haunt his dreams for a good long while. His nose was bloody and a trickle of blood oozed from his mouth. Peter couldn't tell if it had come from his lip or from somewhere else, but he didn't want to take a chance. 

   "Stop it!" he yelled at his two allies. "You're killing him!" 

   "So?" Kaine said emotionlessly. "You of all people should know that the world would be better without this... this carbuncle to poison it." 

   "That's not for us to decide!" Peter said desperately. "You have to let him go!" He looked hopelessly at the black-clad stranger, who took a deep breath and let go of the Goblin's left arm. 

   "He's right, Kaine," he said, almost regretfully. "We can't decide who lives and who dies." He walked over to where Peter was standing. "We'll turn him in, Kaine. We have to." 

   Kaine snorted. "Maybe you do, my friend. But I don't." He threw the dazed and bloody Osborn against a wall, knocking the wind out of him. Springing over towards it, Kaine had pressed his hand to its surface and torn it down before either of the two heroes could make a move to stop him. His eyes displaying nothing but a cold-blooded rage, Kaine slammed the section of wall down onto Osborn's head. Osborn collapsed under the weight of it, and as he did so, the leftover pumpkin bombs in his bag of tricks were set off by the pressure, hurling Kaine backwards and forcing Spidey and the stranger to throw themselves to the floor. 

   Picking himself up, Spidey saw that Osborn was crawling out of the wreckage of the explosion, his face a mask of blood. Against his better judgment, Spidey rushed over to see if his hated foe was all right. He knelt down and said quietly "Norman? Are you okay?" 

   "Wha -" Norman asked. "Where... where am I? Who are you?" _I don't believe it_, Peter thought incredulously. _He hasn't a clue what just happened. _

   "What's... my name?" Osborn asked, blinking away drops of blood and squinting in the harsh light of the chamber. Peter was about to tell him when he heard the distant sound of helicopters and the rumble of heavy vehicles. Looking out the window he could see a large contingent of SWAT troops arriving to cordon off the lodge. Behind him he heard the stranger cry out in alarm as Kaine moved towards Osborn with the quickness of a cat and grabbed the Goblin round the face with one massive paw, burning his Mark into the amnesiac man's face with dispassionate ease. He'd known from the start that neither of them could have stopped him, Peter realized. This was what he'd wanted all along. 

   "This… this was never part of the plan, Kaine!" the stranger cried. "We were just going to help Peter – not maim Norman Osborn! You had no right to do this -" 

   "This was never part of _your_ plan," Kaine said coldly. "It was part of my plan from the beginning. Osborn deserves to see the consequences of his evil every time he looks in the mirror. Peter knows what I'm talking about. Don't you, Peter?" He didn't even bother to look at Spider-Man, as if he expected automatic agreement, his dead eyes still trained mercilessly on the stranger. 

   "I wanted Osborn in jail, not in a hospital," Spider-Man snapped, immediately running towards the fallen Goblin, who was writhing in pain from the hideous burn. Steam rose from his ruined skin. Peter could still smell the stink of it even through his mask, and it made his stomach heave. "You have to pay for this, Kaine. I have to take you down." 

   "You can try," Kaine replied softly. Moving like a panther unchained towards the window, Kaine was out and gone before Peter or the stranger could stop him. Spider-Man punched the wall in frustration. Now that Osborn had the mental capacity of a nursery-schooler, his first responsibility was to protect him, not to chase a maniac. _Another maniac, he corrected himself._

_   Yeah. And if I keep telling myself that, maybe I'll start believing it. _

* * *

   Peter waited for the SWAT team to burst into the room where he and the stranger were guarding Osborn, his arms folded and his spirits low. 

   "Freeze, freaks!" the lead man said in a commanding voice. "Don't move!" 

   "Okay, officers," Peter said, holding his hands up high. "I'm not here to cause trouble. I think you might want to deal with him first." He pointed at the cross-legged figure of Norman Osborn, who was looking about himself cluelessly, like a toddler bereft of his favorite building blocks. 

   "Is... is that who I think it is?" the SWAT man said in disbelief, his attention totally diverted. 

   "Norman Osborn?" Spider-Man said flatly. "Yeah. That's the Green Goblin, all right." 

   "I... I don't believe it. I thought Osborn was one of the good guys – you know, like you." 

   Spider-Man shook his head. "Believe me, sir, he's nothing like me. I'm afraid you won't get a full confession out of him right now, though - he's lost his memory. Doesn't remember who he is or where he comes from." 

   "Ain't that a cryin' shame," the SWAT man replied. "Sounds like we'd get some juicy stuff outta this guy if he really is the Goblin. You gotta understand I ain't just gonna take your word for it." 

   "I understand, officer," Spider-Man said ruefully. "But you have to do things your way, and I have to do things my way. That's just the way things work." 

   "Yeah." The policeman sounded almost regretful. "I'll be seein' ya, Webs." He turned towards his subordinates, who brought with them a special harness designed to be used on superpowered individuals. Spider-Man recognized the model - it was designed to be used on individuals with strength levels at least equivalent to his own; he'd seen one of a similar type used on both Carnage and Venom at different points in time. He thought it would be adequate to hold Osborn at his peak. Now it seemed like so much overkill, but he didn't think it mattered, not where Osborn was concerned. 

   The SWAT team leader turned back towards Spidey for a moment as he was leading the still dazed Osborn away. "Hey, Webs?" he asked. 

   "Yes, Officer?" Spidey answered, a little apprehensively. 

   "Who's your buddy?" 

   "Honestly, sir?" Spidey paused. "I have no idea." 

* * *

   Spider-Man waited until the SWAT team had gone before he moved towards the window. He had to find Kaine. The black-clad hero stopped him with a single hand on his shoulder. 

   "Let him go, Peter," he said slowly, as if he knew exactly what Peter was thinking. His breath came in labored gasps, even after the heat of the moment had passed. "You and I are in no shape to follow him. We'll find him another day." 

   "How can you say that when you saw what he just did?" Peter said incredulously. "I have to -" 

   "I don't like it any more than you do, but we don't have a choice, do we? And I think he did us both a favor today. Norman Osborn doesn't have a clue who he is, and that means no more Green Goblin; at least for the moment. Strange as it may sound, I think this is Kaine's idea of a baby shower." He took a deep breath and laid a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Look, I know that Kaine might not be the best candidate for friendship in the world, but he is my friend - or at least he was - and I know him better than you right now. I'll find him on my own if he doesn't turn up himself. That's a promise." 

   Peter nodded unhappily. Leaving Kaine running loose didn't exactly sit well with him, even after all that Kaine had done for him, but he trusted the stranger for reasons he couldn't put his finger on, exactly. "I don't doubt it." 

   The stranger folded his arms. "I'm sorry, Peter, but that's how it has to be for now. I promise I'll do whatever I can to help you find your baby. If I can find Kaine, he'll help me do it. She's out there, Peter, and we'll help you find her, I swear." 

   Peter frowned underneath his mask. "Look, I don't mean to be rude, but how do you know -" 

   "How do I know your name?" the stranger finished smoothly. "God, Peter! For a genius you can be so blamed dense sometimes! I know Kaine - I helped him track down _your baby__ - and you have to ask me how I know?" _

   Peter had to admit that the stranger had a point. He started to say something else before he noticed that the other man had disappeared. Peter smiled sardonically beneath his mask. _Figures, he thought. _

   Taking one last look around, Peter's thoughts shifted to his wife. _Wait until Mary Jane hears about this._ He walked to the window and leapt out into the night. 


	5. Goblin's Revenge: Epilogue

Peter looked across the table of the expensive French restaurant at his beautiful (and she was very beautiful) wife. She had put on some of her most valuable perfume and made herself so utterly irresistible that he felt almost guilty about not reaching across the table and kissing the life out of her. He poured her some more of the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon that they had almost finished between them and watched her take an elegant sip of the burgundy liquid. They'd have to take a cab home, of that he was certain - he was certainly in no shape to websling either of them anywhere. He wasn't much of a drinker (and had been even less so, after he had fallen victim to spiked punch while battling the Hobgoblin a while back), true, but this, he felt, was a special occasion. 

The two of them had been here for most of the evening discussing the past few days. MJ had told him about the modelling that she still wanted to pursue, and he had told her about what had happened at Osborn's hunting lodge. MJ had raised concerns of her own about the mystery man Peter had allied himself with, and Peter had agreed with her one hundred percent; he wasn't sure he should have done that either. She had been very skeptical about little May being alive at all, and Peter couldn't blame her, but after hearing the double-edged things that Osborn had had to say about their child, MJ thought that possibly - just possibly - her baby might still be alive. She didn't believe it with as much conviction as Peter did, yet, but he thought that was natural. She had a right to feel that way. He would respect that for the moment. 

   He felt MJ slip her smooth hand over his own. "Penny for your thoughts, tiger?" she asked. 

   "Oh, I'm sorry, MJ," he said hurriedly. "Must be the wine." He finished off the last piece of the steak tartar on his plate and continued. "Let's not make this all about me, okay? I want to tell you that I support your decision one hundred percent. If you want to get back into modelling, then you do that, okay? I'll be here for you." 

   MJ grinned. "You told me that half an hour ago. The wine must be affecting you more than you thought. Any new thoughts you'd like to share?" 

   "Um...I love you?" 

   "Good answer," MJ said with a twinkle in her eye. "So do you want to know when my catalogue comes out, or what?"

* * *

The next morning, Peter and MJ were in a perky little coffee house that resided just a few hundred paces from the _Daily Bugle_ building. Across the table from them sat Robbie Robertson, who had asked Peter and MJ to join him because he was curious about Alison Mongrain and what she had had to tell Peter that was so important. He had said to Peter on the phone that he felt he deserved a little payback for cutting his vacation short. "Anything else you can pay off with pictures, son," he had said in his rich, tobacco-stained voice. 

   Peter felt decidedly uncomfortable. After all, he knew that Robbie was an excellent journalist even after so many years as an editor, and not many things escaped his notice. "What can I tell you, Robbie?" he asked apprehensively. 

   "It's about you and Spider-Man," Robbie said. 

Peter swallowed. 

"And about Norman Osborn. He seems to have been important in both your lives. Spider-Man was there when Gwen Stacy died. At the time she was your girlfriend, am I right, Peter?" 

   "Yes, sir, one hundred percent right," Peter said, and so far, Robbie was. 

   "Then why does Osborn target you when he wants Spider-Man, is what I want to know," Robbie said curiously. 

   MJ opened her mouth to say something, but Peter held up his hand for silence. He hated to do it, but this was his hand to play, like it or not. 

"I've… known Spider-Man for years, Robbie. He and I were friends in high school. Believe it or not, he didn't have women throwing themselves at him like he does now. He was a quiet kid. He liked to play Dungeons & Dragons in his spare time, I remember. I think I was his only close friend. He and I know one another's families, and we still get along now. In fact it was his idea that I should be his own private photographer. He fills me in on what he's learned about the supervillains he fights, and I just follow him to get my shots." 

   "No wonder you keep your secret from Jonah," Robbie said with a smile. "He'd have a coronary if he ever found out about it." His face suddenly hardened. "But what about the Stacy girl? You haven't explained about that." 

   "The Goblin killed Gwen to get to Spider-Man through me," Peter said softly. "He knew that hurting me would bring Spider-Man out, so he went for Gwen. He went for her because he's too much of a coward to face Spider-Man face to face." He could hear his voice cracking, and he felt MJ grasp his hand in hers. "Sorry, Robbie. I shouldn't have gone off like that." 

   "On the contrary, Peter," Robbie said. "You have every right."

* * *

   He had stayed awake for most of the night. He watched everything as if it were new. Of course, to him, it was. He remembered nothing of his former existence - not even where he had grown up or what his parents had named him. He watched the shadows in the walls of his little room with the funny walls change as the night changed into day again and the big muscular fellows brought him his breakfast of soft fruits and oatmeal. They left, as they had arrived, without a word, and he wondered why they even bothered. Then, after the night had fully retreated, he heard the door unlock and saw it open again, and in walked a woman in a white coat with a clipboard clutched in her left hand, and a ballpoint pen in her right. Then, for the first time since he had arrived here in this place, somebody spoke to him. 

   "Hello, Norman. I'm Ashley Kafka, your doctor. We're going to go on a journey, you and I. We're going to find out who you are. Are you ready?" 

* * *

**THE END **


End file.
